Quick, parenthetical point: if you doubted my last entry, or perhaps felt I was too harsh on sports writers, read this.
I apologize in advance for asking you to waste your time slogging through that article. About the only thing it does well is prove my point. I'm sorry.
Let's move forward, and hopefully restore a little bit of your faith in the English language that you lost somewhere amidst the terrible jokes about pecan rolls and Mardi Gras.
At the very least, I can do no worse.
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Unfortunately I am in Austin, not around a low, wooden table in a living room in Kensington. A hundred candles aren't burning, casting shadows on a few terracotta soldiers and Buddhas. I don't have a glass of champagne in my hand, a warm plate of food isn't in front of me. Mom isn't sitting across from me and Dad isn't to my left. Amelia isn't to my right, sitting next to Jim. Lilly isn't asleep downstairs, and Tess isn't passing gas in the corner. Fire embers aren't waiting to be rekindled after dinner. Joe isn't refilling champagne glasses and Ellie isn't wearing her hoodie with more holes than fabric. But, for a few minutes, let's pretend that I am sitting at that table, and my family is with me. Candles are burning. Glasses are full. Let's raise them. Dinner can wait for a few minutes.
I would like to propose a toast to Mom and Dad, who have been married for over half their lives, and in love for even longer. For making a marriage of 31 years not just survive, but flourish. To making each house a home, regardless of which continent it was on. For making it to here, even though nobody believed you would when you started out. To putting four kids through college. To being grandma and grandpa. To the journey ahead, and the one already completed. To the Ironmans finished and spectated, to Country Music Marathons, retreats to Italy, "get personal" car magnets, weeks on the beach in Bali and Lombok, to Vietnamese coffee, morning cups of tea, toast with honey, occasionally sharing Venus razors and everything else that has filled in the gaps between the 31 anniversaries.
Here's to you, Mom and Dad. To being different [the barely 5', ever-peaceful mother, the 6'2", a little rough-around-the-edges father], yet so complementary. For always finding a way, and sometimes making one. Here's to right now, this family, this dinner, which is anything but accidental.
And here's to the next 31 years, which I for one, am excited as hell about.
Cheers.
A shift in the plot
4 months ago
2 comments:
To understand the sad deterioration of sports writing, cast your eyes on this piece of self-indulgent drivel from that wretched wanker, Chico Harlan, of the Washington Post. Some writers struggle with the language; some create art with it; Harlan molests it.
"Here's a guarantee: Several times within the next month, you will consume a news story asserting that a particular baseball player is Reporting to Spring Training in the Best Shape of His Life. Chances are, you will read several of these stories, because they are a rite of the baseball calendar, and because certain players do bust their butts during the offseason. When they reemerge into the public eye, ready for workouts, everybody notices the difference.
"The invention of spring training stories about fitness coincided, best as I can tell, with the invention of February itself. Not that the accounts have always been positive. A 1932 story in The Post about aging "big moundsman" Fred Marberry included several quotes from team president Clark Griffith, who said, "[H]e is getting older, and takes on fat over his shoulders and around his stomach, and has trouble not only getting it off but keeping it off. Why, he gains a few pounds when he has two or three off-days. And this excess fat also prevents him from getting all of his stuff on the ball."
"As baseball writers, we see players just about every day from mid-February until early October. So, notable appearance changes in the time apart are all the easier to notice. Last year, Kory Casto, Ronnie Belliard and Ryan Zimmerman all reported to Viera in much-improved shape. And in Zimmerman's case, it coincided with a breakout year."
Vomit...
Edward, that toast was really a very beautiful piece of writing. I loved it.
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